"Hope" Is The Thing With Feathers*: On Being A Songbird

 Photo: "Who Taught That Redwing Blackbird How to Fly" by freshelectrons is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

This morning I ran 3.6 miles!  Only 9.5 miles to go.  The last half mile was pretty rough, but I made it, slowly, one foot in front of the other.

At one point near the end of my run, the song I was listening to on my phone came to an end and there was a long stretch of silence before the next song began.  I really dislike those stretches of silence sometimes - at the end of my long runs I rely on the music to keep me going, to keep me focused, to keep my mind off how much everything hurts.  In the silence I hear my labored breathing, hear the sounds of my feet smacking the hard ground, hear the noise of traffic or construction or other people's conversations.  With the music it is easier for me to run with purpose, without it running often feels a lot more like work.

Today however, just as I started to groan inwardly at how long the next song was taking to begin, a new sound caught my ear.  I was running through a park and the songbirds were really making "a joyful noise" in the trees on one side of me.  I smiled immediately because I love the sound of birds singing (who doesn't?), and this morning their commotion sounded very much like boisterous voices cheering me on as I ran.

I love songbirds.  I love waking up in the morning, while it is still dark, and hearing them singing outside my window - announcing, without any alarm clock, the impending arrival of a new day.  I especially love that first morning, near the end of a long winter (and this winter was the longest, wasn't it?) when you first hear their voices.  To me, someone who struggles deeply in winter with its short days and long nights, those first early morning songs are the sound of hope - the reminder that this too shall pass and that if I can hold on just a little longer, I will once again be surrounded by a world of light and warmth.

It struck me this morning as I ran that Christians are called to the same purpose as songbirds.  We are called to be the heralds of the Light of the World, singing a song of hope and courage to those still sitting in darkness.  Often I listen to the news or read the headlines, and I feel so disheartened, discouraged by the seemingly great ocean of evil and hatred and suffering all around me.  But this morning I felt encouraged, invigorated by the gentle reminder that we are called to be the harbingers of Good News to a world that is waiting, often in hopelessness and despair, just as the songbirds are the harbingers of spring and of a new dawn to those of us who cannot yet feel it or see it.  The birds don't feel it or see it yet either, but they know it is coming, and they sing out their joyful song in the beautiful way they were created to do.  We, too, will soon enjoy the light and beauty of a glorious (and eternal!) spring day, but first we must usher it in as songbirds in the darkness of a waning night.

It is is said that Pheidippides ran the first marathon in Greece from a battlefield to the city of Athens to announce the victory of the Greeks over the Persians in a military conflict.  (The fable goes on to say that he then collapsed and died, which is why I am running a half-marathon, people.  HALF-marathon.)  I'll be running my race in October because I want to join with the staff and volunteers at Heartline Ministries in being a forerunner of hope to the people of Haiti, announcing a victory that is finished even as they wait, and the advent of a Kingdom of Peace to those who have known much more of loss and violence than I can ever imagine.

It takes courage and perseverance to be a forerunner.  It takes faith to be a songbird.  It takes eyes to see what the Creator is about to reveal, and it takes the courage to sing out the Good News of the victory of the Unconquerable Son to a world still shrouded in darkness.

So to the songbirds of this world: Take heart!  We hear you.  Your voice makes a difference, and when we hear it, we have hope.

And to those who feel worn out and alone, tired of waiting, tired of enduring:  I know it has been a long winter, the longest night.  But close your eyes and listen: "the birds their carol raise."  The Light of the World is coming!  Dawn is almost here!

******

I can't end a post about songbirds without including a link to one of my all-time favorite songs ever: Redwing by Hem.  Listen and enjoy!

Redwing

Hey, was that you floating past the tree line?
Hey, was that a feather in your hand?
No, I don't mean to ask these questions
I don't mean to rush your heart
I swear I saw this accidentally
No, I don't mean to start

Hey, the rain falls straight into the sidewalk
Hey, the clouds hang heavy in the sky
But I don't want to still believe in
The gravity of solid ground
The world below is not so big
That it can keep us down

We are standing on the rooftops
We are circling like sparrows
We are tiny, we are trembling
Scared of everything
But the heart is still a redwing

Fly above the houses and the schoolyards
And fly until you cannot feel the Earth
No, I don't mean that it's so easy
And I don't mean that it's so small
But the world below is not so mean
That it can make us fall

We are standing on the rooftops
We are circling like sparrows
We are tiny, we are trembling
Scared of everything
But the heart is still a redwing

Songwriters
Daniel R. Messe

Published by
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group

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*"Hope" is the thing with feathers - (314) by Emily Dickinson

******

On October 19th of this year, I will be running the St. Louis Rock-n-Roll Half-Marathon with the goal of raising $5,000 for Heartline Ministries and the women of Port-au-Prince, Haiti.  If you would like to support me in my efforts, please visit my Pure Charity fundraising page for more information!  Thank you!

Things I Love: Poetry (Sometimes)

I was recently inspired by a friend to make a 40x40 list: 40 things I want to do by the time I'm 40 (Which is ridiculously close, in my opinion - when did true adulthood sneak up and smack me upside the head with its grey hairs and back pain?  It's quite rude, really.  I'm pretty sure I just got my undergraduate diploma yesterday.  The Alumni Association seems to think so, at any rate.)

Anyway, one of the items on my list is to read an entire book of poetry; a second item is to memorize a poem.  I've never really been much into poetry, to be honest.  But I think some of that had to do with my youthful need for things to be black and white - for it all to make sense and mean something clear cut and understandable.  Prose is better for that.  Poetry can be frustratingly vague and I-don't-know... snobby.  (There.  I said it.)

Recently I've also come to suspect that I've been reading the wrong poetry - wrong for me, anyway.  We can't all be fans of Leaves of Grass.  (I've tried, people!  Honestly, I have.)

So. I'm currently in search of poetry that I find beautiful.  Poetry that doesn't make me want to smack my head on the wall over and over with boredom or in the frustrating throes of whatdoesitmean, whatdoesitmean, whatdoesitMEAN!  I posted one quite awhile back that I love very much.  And then, a few days ago, a friend posted the following poem as her facebook status.  And I fell in love again.

Isn't poetry supposed to be the food of love?

Lodged

The rain to the wind said,
You push and I'll pelt.
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged--though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.

Robert Frost
West-Running Brook
1928

This One Is For Courage

A couple of posts ago (which, I realize, was also about 3 months ago), I mentioned a song by one of my favorite musicians, Ben Shive. The song is called "A Last Time for Everything" and it appears on Ben's newest album, The Cymbal Crashing Clouds. (I highly recommend Ben's album. I also highly recommend Ben's family if you are ever fortunate enough to meet them. They are the kind of people this world needs more of.) I mentioned in that post that I would hopefully post the lyrics to the song here, after I first made sure it was okay. (At the time of my original post, the album hadn't dropped yet. Is that the right word, "dropped?" I know almost nothing about the music industry.)

Anyway, I checked, and it is okay, so here, my friends, are the lyrics:

(But first! Go here so that you can listen to the song while you read the lyrics!)

A LAST TIME FOR EVERYTHING

We’re running out
of fear and doubt;
we’re low on loneliness.
And long goodbyes
are in short supply;
we’re coming to the bitter’s end.

Tired of the letdowns,
‘cause they never let up
when learning to do without
is all that you ever get enough of.

Well, there is a last time. There's a last time for everything.

Then what of this earthly life?
It’s a beating sustained
by a knot of nerves and veins:
a trembling choir.

We are born born to pass away
and nothing gold can stay;
I’m a dwindling fire.

The seasons spin around me
as I’m breathing in and out,
and ever my heart is pounding
a steady, unstoppable countdown

Counting down to the last time. There's a last time for everything.

You have to look death in the eye--
In the eye!
You need to see what’s hidden there
You have to look him in the eye
In the eye!
You need to see that he’s afraid to die.
He's afraid to die.

But you my love,
you’re gonna wake up soon
in your lonely room
to the sound of a singing bird

and throw the curtain back
to find your bag’s already packed
and the cab is at the curb.

And, like a bad dream--
unreal in the morning light--
so will the world seem
when you see it in the mirror for the last time.

‘Cause there is a last time for everything. There's a last time for everything.


(For some of the story behind this song, go here.)


In the past month, another good friend of mine had a miscarriage. When I heard the news, I felt my insides tighten up and my heart start to ache, because while all grief is personal and unique, I know my own version of that sorrow, and it is awful. And I hurt for her and her family. And I wished, for what felt like the thousandth time, that no one else would experience what she has experienced and that I could take every ounce of grief and pain away from her forever.

I can't. Not even close. But I know someone who can, and He has promised to do exactly that, and He who promised is faithful.

Until that day, dear friend, I will pray that you will be able to hold unswervingly to the hope on which your heart rests. And I pray that even in the midst of the grief and sorrow, you will be able to know - really know - that all of this is only temporary and will one day end. The pain and sorrow and separation of death is trickling out,

and one day,

in a blink,

it

will

all

be




gone.

Good Words

As most of you already know, I am a big fan of blogs. I love them. I read them pretty much daily. And I'm always up for checking out a new blog that someone (anyone) recommends or links to. Because of this, I've followed an increasing number over the course of the last few years. Several months ago I realized that it was all becoming a bit too much time-wise. I simply couldn't keep up with all of them, and even trying to keep up required more time than I felt comfortable spending. So I drastically cut the list of blogs I check regularly to those you see linked on the side of my page. I still "drop in" on a few others from time to time, but I definitely don't try to read every single post.

Those linked to the left, however, are my current favorites. And most of them have been my favorites for a long time. I deliberately set the Blogger gadget to list when each of these blogs is updated because I look forward to reading them so much, and I love to see a status that lets me know there's a new post ready to read. One of my long-time favorites is called The Flourishing Mother. I'm not sure exactly when I first started following Andrea, but it was definitely several years ago. I thoroughly enjoy all of her thoughts on mothering and life in general (as well as her lists of weekend reads!). She is full of wisdom, and I appreciate her "realness" and transparency, as well as the humble, faithful heart that is clearly evident in her steady and deliberate pursuit of excellence in all she does.

I've always loved how blogs provide a glimpse into others' thoughts and perspectives, and over the course of time I love that I can come to "know" someone I will almost certainly never meet. What a blessing that is - to not be completely limited by geography or time or life stage or even differences in personality in our opportunities to "hear" each other! I have never met Andrea and most likely never will, but I feel as if she is a part of my community in many ways, and I'm grateful for her and her words in my life. Recently Andrea wrote a poem and posted it to her blog, and I've seriously read it over and over and over again. It has been a great encouragement to me, and it seems to sum up so much of what my life is about right now. I'm always thankful for words of hope, and I know many of you are too, so here are Andrea's words from a day back in May**:

Bare empty sticks
become
lush fragrant
in due time.

Things are Always Changing.
The Way I Feel Now
Will not last forever.

God is constantly changing Nature.
But He never does.
He stays the Same.

We do not stay hidden in the tight bulb.
We are let out to bloom
To have new life
To Change
to Become
lush, fragrant
not always
Bare, Empty Sticks.


Amen. Thank you, Andrea! And thank you, God, for your promise to make everything new.

**Reposted with permission.

Radiant World

Awhile ago I checked out a book of poetry by Victor Hugo from the library. I have only had time to read a few of the poems here and there, but one in particular really stood out to me and has been rattling around in my brain for some time.

Unfortunately, while Victor Hugo lived in the 19th century, many of his works of poetry have only been translated and published in English in recent years. So while the original poems might be part of the public domain (although I'm not sure if France has the same copyright rules in that regard), these recently published translations are definitely not. Thus, I can't legally copy the poem out for you here in this blog like I'd like to.

However, Google Books provides a nice (and I presume, legal) preview of the book which includes the poem, "Tonight in clouds the sun has gone to bed...." The text is bilingual, meaning that the original French is on the left page with the corresponding English translation on the right. So, if you follow the link, you actually have to find the beginning of the poem at the bottom of page 49, then skip page 50 (which is the rest of the original French), and read the end on the top of page 51.

Annnnd, if anyone can (or even wants to) actually follow all those complicated and ridiculous steps, I will be extremely impressed. But, moving on.

I find this poem very comforting, perhaps bizarrely so. I suppose in some ways it can be a bit melancholy to be reminded of the transience of our lives. But I spend so much of my day worrying and fretting over really pointless, insignificant things. I agonize over decisions that seem momentous. Deep down, even I know that most of them won't matter in a year or two. Very, very few have a lifelong impact. And really, what even is that? My lifetime. Of such great importance to me. But just a blip in the span of time. I want to make the most of my life. And I try very, very hard to that end. Mostly though..., I fail. What a relief it is to know that my worries, and successes, and failures do not hold this world up.

This whole radiant world. I am so thankful for it.

Testing, Testing

Hello?

Is anyone out there? Did the great blog migration of 2009 conclude successfully or am I now writing into a void? Truth be told, when I compose my posts I often feel like I'm writing into a void - and I actually kind of like it that way. It gives the process that cathartic "dear diary" feeling. I just always have to go back and make sure that I didn't write anything too embarrassing before I publish the post. I figure if what I write passes the mom-check and boss-check, I'm golden.

So, I changed the blog name, url, and a little bit of the layout. What do you think? For those of you who normally read your blog posts like I do - straight from Google Reader - things might look pretty different from the last time you visited "in-person." I'm not too certain about the colors honestly - they seem a bit garish to me sometimes. But I also wanted something a little fun and upbeat. Plus, I can always change it later. (If you all hate it, let me know and that later can be a little sooner.)

I decided to change the name for a few basic reasons: 1) I'm starting a new chapter in my life which I'm partially celebrating (and recording) through renewed blogging endeavors, and I think new chapter+renewed blog=new blog name, 2) I decided I'd rather have a title that's a bit more anonymous, and 3) the old title was boring. I'm not the best at coming up with creative names though so I just scribbled down ideas as they came to me over a few days and then had Peter, and my friend Megan, give me feedback on what they liked best.

The chosen title comes from a favorite e.e. cummings quote, "The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful." Now, you should know, poetry and poets are one of the greatest mysteries on earth to me. Seriously. I never understand poetry. And poets seem even more incomprehensible to me most of the time. Their brains just work in very different ways or something, I don't know. I mention this because I have no idea what mr. e.e. cummings really meant by his quote. It probably has some secret genius significance or symbolism that went right over my head. And that's fine. Because I've developed a very egocentric approach to poetry (and with all other art): in my opinion, at the end of the day, all that matters is what it means to me.

I am a person who looks at the world and sees a lot of mud and puddles. I like to say that I'm like Eeyore. (Peter says I'm really a mix of Eeyore, Rabbit, and Piglet, but Eeyore is lovable in his gloominess while Rabbit and Piglet are basically basket-cases most of the time, so I think I'll just stick with Eeyore, thank-you-very-much.) I will never be an optimist. It's just not in my nature. But all the same, I have a certain fascination with optimism. And hope - dear, sweet, precious, hope - is one of my favorite forms of grace. So while I'm okay with my mud puddle tendencies (well, some of the time), I truly want to be a person who sees beauty and joy and hope in the world around me too. This world is not as it should be, not as it was meant to be, but there is still a glory in it - not just in the mountains and stars, but also in the mud and the puddles. And that's where I am most of the time, down here in the dust and the dirt and the mud and the puddles. And I just don't want to miss the wonder of it.